


Shot Me Down

by Cristinuke



Series: Bang Bang [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood and Gore, Injury, M/M, Pre-Slash, Surgery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 03:27:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2372825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cristinuke/pseuds/Cristinuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Clint got got seriously injured on Phil's watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shot Me Down

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Shot Me Down 中文翻译](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12134454) by [AdorableDork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdorableDork/pseuds/AdorableDork)



> This came about from a prompt I was given ages ago on tumblr. 
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-awesome [varjohaltija](http://archiveofourown.org/users/varjohaltija)
> 
> More warnings at the end.

"Agent Barton. Talk to me. C'mon, talk to me." Phil repeated, finger on his earpiece as he took the stairs two by two, gun raised and ready in his other hand. He was making his way up to the roof as quickly as he could, but didn't know if there were any other targets lurking in this building. Agent Barton took them all out, but still. Now was not the time to lower the guard.

"Agent, report." Phil tried again. This time, he heard the _click_ of the comms, but it was followed by labored breathing, and a painful-sounding grunt.

"Agent Barton, do you copy?" He was two stories below, running up the stairwell at this point. He didn't know how bad off Agent Barton was.

"S-sorry, s-sir," The radio crackled as Phil heard raspy coughing on the other line. Just one more flight of stairs.

"Agent, where is your current location?" Phil forced his voice to be calm. He knew that all the lower levels thought he was an implacable robot who felt nothing, and while that wasn't true, it certainly helped them have a calmer state of mind when they were injured and Phil was talking to them. His reputation as a senior field agent preceded him, and he would use it to his advantage, if it meant getting out of here alive. He just hoped Agent Barton wasn't too badly injured.

"Agent?" Phil repeated when he just heard static. He jumped the last three steps and shouldered his way out through the door, stepping into dying sunlight.

"Behind…conditioner…." More coughing. Luckily, the voice coming from the radio was overlapping with the real voice, and Phil moved around the air conditioning unit to find Agent Barton slumped against the broad side of the unit.

"Shit." It looked bad.

Phil could clearly see how Barton's abdomen was soaked through with blood, despite his attempts of holding himself together with his hands. Barton's head tipped back to look at Phil; his face was drained of color, and he had blood starting to stain his lips.

Phil touched his earpiece again. "Merry-Go-Round, this is Coulson. I need immediate evac on Third and Rosario, on the south side of the roof. If you've got any medics, be advised that Hawkeye has a GSW in his abdomen. Possibly multiple. Out."

He heard a confirmation of six minutes and he cursed the excess time. He acknowledged the ETA as he holstered his gun and knelt down beside Agent Barton.

"Hey, c'mon, stay with me." Phil urged when he saw Barton's eyes flicker closed for a moment. Phil shrugged off his jacket, folding it and then pressing it to Barton's stomach. Barton's eyes shot wide open at that as he gave a little hurt noise of surprise. "There you are. Keep your eyes on me, Agent, okay? We'll get you out."

Barton gave a weak cough and groaned out, "Fucking Bogota. Sir."

A surprised bark of laughter escaped Phil at that, and he saw Barton's mouth tighten into a grimace of a smile. His hands were trying to help Phil keep the pressure on, but he wasn't doing a very good job of focusing.

"You just hold on, and we'll get you out of here. How does Malibu sound? I'm sure we have some operations around there." Phil knew he had to keep Barton talking and awake, or else he might lose him. He already lost so much blood.

Barton just _mhmm_ 'ed his answer, and started coughing again, spitting out more blood, and gasping in his breath.

"Hey, eyes back here," Phil ordered when Barton lolled his head to the side. Barton complied and forced himself to train his eyes on Phil. "What you did back there…that was incredible, Barton. Thank you."

Barton just gave a grunt of acknowledgment before spiraling down another series of hacking coughs.

Phil really was impressed with how Barton was doing. He'd been on the roof, acting as their sniper and eyes-in-the-skies when he'd saw the target no one else had. He'd had to change nests, giving his position away, in order to take down the guy. He essentially saved Phil's life, and got shot by the insurgents they were trying to kill. Phil had no idea how Barton managed to take all of them out with multiple gunshot wounds in his gut, but he had to hand it to the agent. He really was pretty fucking good.

" _ETA three minutes, sir_." Phil heard his radio crackle.

"Hey, you hear that? Three more minutes. You're okay." He shifted his stance a little bit to put more pressure, and winced when he heard Agent Barton whimper. "You're going to be just fine, Agent Barton."

"Fuuuuuck," Barton gasped out when he had enough air. He tipped his head back against the unit, and closed his eyes, sending Phil into a panic.

"Hey, no, no, eyes on me, Agent. You gotta keep up, c'mon, _c'mon!_ " Barton didn't respond until Phil lightly tapped his face, bringing him back to awareness. Relief overran the horror Phil felt when he saw how much blood was covering his own hands, and how he just left a bloody handprint across Barton's face.

"Stay with me, c'mon. You survive this, and I'll take you out for a coffee. You fucking deserve it." Phil attempted a laugh, but it fell too flat.

Barton managed another grimace, though, and rasped out, "Coffee? You kidding? Th-this deserves f-fucking d-dinn'r." His words started slurring there at the end, and Phil was trying so hard not to panic. He couldn't lose another agent. And especially not one with _so_ much potential. He'd seen Barton work extremely hard to get so far, and Phil would be damned if he let something like a stupid mistake in intel ruin all that.

Barton could end up being one of SHIELD's best agents, easily. If he survived.

"You're right, dinner is the minimum. I'll take you to dinner. Tell me your favorite food." Phil ordered. Barton just blinked at him, his breath stuttering. He looked like he was already in shock which scared Phil so much. He repeated himself, and finally Barton nodded.

"Ummm, pizza?" It came out sounding like a question, and he let his head tip to the side.

Phil could hear the soft _wump wump wump_ of the helicopter coming from the distance.

"Good, good, Barton. Pizza is good. Ever had Santarpio's Pizza? Out in Boston?" Phil's jacket was completely soaked through with blood by now, and Phil was trying hard to not let his thoughts turn pessimistic.

The odds weren't good, though.

"Barton?" Phil prompted. Barton just shook his head, and Phil thought he heard a soft negation. "It's the best pizza ever. I'll take you there, okay? Soon as we're all done here, I'll take you to Boston, and we'll eat pizza. You with me?"

The helicopter was seconds away, Phil could see it, finally.

"Iss a date?" Barton coughed out, his hands giving up trying to help, and letting them fall to the floor besides his thighs.

Phil forced out a chuckle, saying, "Yeah. You bet it's a date. You gotta be there, though." The helicopter was hovering above them now, blowing wind all over the place, and forcing both Phil and Barton to squint at the sudden rush of air. Phil heard in his ear piece that they could only land for a few seconds, so he needed to get Agent Barton up as quickly as he could.

Phil cursed at how these operations that didn't have proper backup. Or medics, as Phil judged by the fact that no one jumped out of the helicopter.

"Hey, Barton, c'mon, we have to go." Phil forced Barton's hands to cover his stomach again, saying, "Hold this here. You got it. Don't let go." Barton tried, Phil could see that, but he was losing strength too rapidly. Phil steeled himself and snuck his arms under Barton's armpits, hauling them both up, and trying to ignore the sudden shout of _pain_ that Barton couldn't help but make.

Phil tucked Barton against him, trying to hold onto him as he dragged him across the roof to where the helicopter was just touching down. Barton was gasping against Phil, the strain taking a huge toll on him. Phil felt sudden gratitude when one of the agents from the helicopter decided to take pity and jumped out to help Phil carry Barton.

It was a short struggle to get Barton on board, but they managed it, and then they were taking off to who-knew-where. Phil's handler hadn't told his team where to go if someone got injured, and Phil was really pissed with that lack of knowledge. In fact, Phil was pissed at the way this whole operation had been handled. There were at least four separate things that Phil saw that he could have easily prevented if he had been the one in charge of this goddamn operation. He was going to have words with Fury when he got back.

He was brought back to the situation at hand when he heard Barton whimper. Phil looked down and saw Barton was curled around himself and Phil, hand covering his stomach while his other was clenching tightly to Phil's suit pants. Phil still couldn't believe that this operation called for him to wear a three-piece suit. Who even did that?

"What's the plan?" Phil called out as he arranged Barton as best as he could in the cramped space, hand returning to keep pressure on the stomach wound. Barton was covered in a clammy, cold sweat and his face was too pale, with his lips turning slightly grayish-blue. The contrast with the bright red blood staining his skin was too nerve-wracking.  

"We're taking you to the local hospital. It's the best we can do for him." The pilot answered, gesturing to Barton. Phil knew he was right. There was no way Barton would survive the next hour without medical attention.

The guy that had helped Phil carry Barton in, had already moved back into the cockpit, assuming his copilot duties with a last glance back at Phil. "And the rest of the team?" Phil asked.

"En route to the safe house. Pick up is at 0600. All accounted for. Mission parameters achieved, sir." Phil sighed in relief. Everyone else was safe and the bad guys were taken care of. If Barton made it, this would be called a success. If.

Phil turned his attention back to Barton, who was breathing raggedly, looking out at nothing. "Barton, stay with me, c'mon. You promised." Barton slowly dragged his gaze up at Phil and winced.

"Your…your…suit." Barton breathed harshly. Phil looked down at himself, seeing how his crisp white shirt and vest were drenched with blood all along his front.

"Yeah?" Phil asked, not quite sure what Barton was getting at.

"I m'ssed it up. Ruin'd it." Barton stated around another wince as the helicopter jarred everyone with a bank right.

Phil let out another surprised chuckle. "It's just a bit of blood. It'll wash off with some soap." Phil teased. He couldn't believe he was actually bantering with a dying agent, but it was worth it to see Barton cough a laugh.

The trip to the hospital was quick, though once they landed, Phil wasn't sure they could decently call what they had, a hospital. Phil looked back to the pilot who grimaced in understanding, giving a shrug that said ' _it's the best we can do under these circumstances_ '. Phil nodded and turned to see a local running towards him while speaking in rapid Spanish.

Phil waved his hands to beckon him over and spoke in broken Spanish, " _Ayuda_ , um, _herida, con bala? Est_ _ómago, muchos_?"

The local seemed to understand and immediately called for another guy to come help carry Barton inside. A third guy came out, and Phil came to understand that this was the doctor, or at least as close to a doctor as they had in, what was this, a village?

They placed Barton down on cleared off table, and the doctor was cutting through Barton's tactical suit with a knife, while speaking urgently to the other two. They started setting up, putting lights around the room, trying to brighten it up, and bringing different surgical tools to the table.

Barton was in agony. It was plain to see. All the shuffling around had jarred him too much and he was shaking his head back and forth in a desperate bid to make the pain go away. The low, soft noises he was making were breaking Phil's heart. It was too much.

"Anesthesia? _Hola_? To help? _Ayudar con dolor_?" Phil asked urgently, feeling helpless.

He felt his stomach drop when the doctor looked back at him and said, " _No, no, no tenemos nada aquí, ni siquiera calmantes. Va a tener que aguantar si quiere sobrevivir esto_."

Barton was going to have to undergo surgery without any help.

Phil didn't know why, but he couldn't help himself from grabbing Barton's hand and squeezing tightly, ignoring the way their fingers slipped through the blood and sweat. Barton looked up at him again, and his eyes were wide and fearful. Phil suddenly remembered that Barton spoke perfect Spanish.

" _Agarrale. No se puede mover durante esto, comprendes_?" The doctor was speaking to Phil again. He had to repeat it again, slowly, for Phil to understand that he was supposed to hold on to Barton.

Phil nodded and placed his other hand on Barton's shoulder. The doctor busied himself with ripping off the rest of the tattered remains of Barton's clothes and barking out some orders to his helpers in rapid Spanish. One of the men came back and handed the doctor a bottle of something. It was only when he uncapped it and started pouring it over Barton's stomach, that Phil realized he was sterilizing him with pure alcohol.

Barton panicked and started screaming. Phil lost his grip on him when he began thrashing about. There was more yelling in Spanish, and one of the other guys came over to hold Barton down, yelling at Phil at the same time. Phil got with the program, and held onto Barton on his side, talking to him again, trying to get him to calm down.

"I know, I know. It stings, but you have to relax." Barton was inconsolable, coughing and fighting and shaking. Phil kept trying, grabbing onto both of Barton's wrists and easily pinning them down. "He needs to disinfect it if he's going to take those bullets out and stop the bleeding. C'mon, work with me here, Barton. Barton! Clint!"

Saying his first name seemed to act as a pause button. He stopped thrashing, stopped moving, and probably stopped breathing for a moment as he stared back at Phil with frantic eyes. "Hey, _hey_ , there you are. Easy, Clint. You gotta relax. You have to be calm during the surgery. Can you do that for me? Can you do that?"

Clint shuddered out a weak cough and nodded, and just like that, the fight drained out of him. Phil fervently hoped not everything was drained,- Clint still needed to fight to survive the surgery.

Phil looked over at the doctor, who already had some tools in his hands, and was giving them to his aids, including a scalpel and some prongs. The doctor raised an eyebrow at Phil, and Phil just nodded.  

That was all the doctor needed before he began murmuring to the others in Spanish, starting to dig into Clint's abdomen.

Phil looked at Clint's face, and saw the pure pain of being cut into while trying not to move at the same time. He had shut his eyes tightly closed, and was breathing hard, little whimpers escaping his throat. Phil grabbed his hand again, bringing it up closer to Clint's face, and Clint's grip on him turned into a vice. Phil didn't dare try to adjust his hand in Clint's grip.

"Clint, you gotta keep your eyes on me, remember?" Phil said, and Clint's eyes snapped open, all raw emotion there.

"Y-yu, you… know m' name…" Clint gritted out between clenched  teeth, but his bright eyes were locked on Phil's.

"Yeah, Clint. Of course I know your name. You're Clint Barton. Agent of SHILED. Codename Hawkeye. Best marksman in the world, remember?" Phil listed each fact clearly and steadily, wondering how deep into shock Clint already was.

"N-no…no….one, r'm'bers m'… name…" Clint mumbled out as he squeezed his eyes shut again, fighting against another wave of pain. Phil looked over and saw the doctor pulling out a slug. Phil turned his attention back to Clint and crouched down beside the table so that he was at eye level with him. With his free hand, he reached over to cup Clint's neck and jaw, gently turning him towards himself. Clint opened his eyes slowly, and Phil could see they were filled with tears.

"I will always remember your name, okay? You hear me, Clint? I will _always_ remember you," Phil promised. The threatening tears started to spill; since Clint was lying down and head turned on his side, the tears pooled against the bridge of his nose until they overflowed and ran down the rest of his face to land on the table below. Phil rubbed his thumb back and forth against a tendon in Clint's neck, wishing he could something to ease the pain.

"You're being so strong, right now, Clint." Phil told him as another wave of pain seemed to overwhelm him again. Phil knew that the doctor had pulled another bullet from Clint's abdomen, and he wished fiercely that that was the last one. "You're so brave. You just hold on, okay?"

The pain was getting to be too much for Clint, who was shaking and moaning with it. He tried struggling again, earning a low curse from the doctor. " _Quieto!_ Still! Still!" The doctor growled out as he tried to keep sight of whatever he was doing.

Phil was there, pushing Clint back down. Clint tried to turn his head away, but Phil held on tight and forced Clint to keep watching him, fingers digging into the base of his skull. Clint eased up again, breathing hard and groaning.

"There you go, it's okay. You're going to be okay, right Clint?" Phil knew that stomach wounds were the most painful even in the best of situations; but this? This was unbelievable. Phil couldn't believe that Clint was still alive at this point. "Keep your eyes on me, there you go."

Clint's eyes were quickly clouding over, no longer able to focus on anything but the pain. Phil held onto him as tightly as he dared, willing Clint to survive. A spike of fear laced through him when he saw Clint's eyes flutter closed.

"Hey, no, Clint. _Clint_. C'mon, come back. Keep those eyes on me, that's an order." Clint blearily opened his eyes halfway, but he squeezed them shut and gritted out a muffled scream, surging up against Phil's hold on him. Phil kept him down and looked over to see the doctor dropping a third slug on a nearby plate. The doctor was rapidly speaking Spanish to the others who were suddenly bustling about for new tools or something. Phil caught snippets, and he understood that that had been the last one. Now they just needed to stop the bleeding and stitch Clint up.

When Phil looked back at Clint, his heart stopped for a moment. Clint wasn't moving, wasn't breathing.

"Clint? Fuck, c'mon, don't give up now. Clint. _Clint_. _Clint!_ " Phil lightly tapped his face, jarring him a little bit, and Clint finally responded, whimpering plaintively. Phil breathed out sharply in relief. "That's it, you're okay. Just finishing up now, okay?" Clint cracked an eye open, and Phil's thumb returned its pointless soothing gesture of rubbing back and forth.

Phil continued like that, talking to Clint, trying to keep him present and offering worthless words and careful touches. It took longer than Phil had expected for the doctor to close everything up. Phil thought he heard him say something about "unexpected bleeding", but it seemed that he was able to take care of it for the moment. Clint needed a real hospital and real doctors and real surgeons _soon_.

Phil was watching Clint the whole time, so he saw when he went limp and closed his eyes.

"Clint?" Phil started panicking again. _Not now. Not after all this_. "Clint? Hey, no, wait." Phil tried rousing him again, but he was stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder. Phil glanced up to see the doctor, his whole front stained red with blood.

" _Está durmiendo. Déjale, pobrecito_. He is sleep." The doctor offered a kind smile, and Phil looked back at Clint. He pressed his fingers to Clint's pulse point, and could feel his steady heartbeat. He could also see Clint breathing; weakly, but breathing. He had finally hit his limit and just passed out. He'd lasted a lot longer than Phil would have thought.

Phil gave a curt nod to say that he understood, but he refused to leave Clint's side. He still had one of Clint's hands in his, and Phil's other hand was now carding through Clint's hair, sifting through the dirt and debris that had managed to get stuck in there. He couldn't believe how close to death Clint had been. Still was.

Another touch on his shoulder had Phil breaking out of his reverie to look up. It was one of the doctor's helpers, and he had a chair with him. The man kept pointing to Phil and to the chair before pushing the chair towards him. Phil looked up at him and offered a tired smile of gratitude, murmuring " _Gracias,"_ as he stood up from his awkward crouch, allowing the man to push the chair behind Phil.

Phil sat down heavily, and returned his attention to Clint. He was still out, but Phil felt better when he returned his hand to stroke across his face, making vague attempts to rub off the dried blood there.

Phil didn't know what to do. Pick-up wasn't for another few hours, so they couldn't leave yet, and he was still terrified that Clint wouldn't make it that long. Phil looked down Clint's body, noting the vast amount of drying blood all over his chest, and staining the bandages covering his abdomen. He needed antibiotics and good medical care, but they weren't going to have access to those things for a while.

So Phil grudgingly let one hand go, in order to dig through his pocket for his walkie-talkie. He contacted the safe house, relieved all over again to hear that everyone was safe and in good condition. He updated his and Barton's status, letting them know that they were going to have to come by the village to pick them up on the way out. Everyone agreed and wished Barton well, though Phil could hear the doubt that tainted their wishes. Phil couldn't blame them.

With everyone on board and knowing what to do next, Phil signed off and brought his attention back to Clint. He didn't know what else he could do for Clint, except wait it out and see.

So Phil started talking.

Phil talked about everything that came to mind, from stupid little memories he had of when he was a kid, to the huge amounts of paperwork he'd be doing when they got home.

"You know," Phil murmured, picking at some residue from drywall on Clint's neck, "I'm going to have a serious talk with Fury. It's about time I took that job as a handler…Fury's been hinting that I should take it, but I just, never…did. I don't know why." Phil did his routine check of pressing his fingers to Clint's neck to feel his pulse, and carefully placed his palm on Clint's chest to feel it rise and fall.

Phil brought his hand back Clint's hair, absently stroking it in silence for a moment. "I think it's because I was scared." Phil gave a dry ghost of a chuckle at that. "Scared of what? I don't know. Scared of losing my reputation? Changing it for the worse? Suddenly being in charge of multiple agents and lives? I thought I wasn't ready…but I think I am." Phil's fingers traced Clint's temple down to his jaw. He winced when he saw how Clint's lips were bloodied, and knew he was going to have a horrible aftertaste later.

"Okay, I got it." Phil straightened up a little in his chair. "I'll do it. I'll take the job, and become a handler for field agents. But you gotta do this with me, okay? If I become handler, I'll get to pick my own agents. I'll pick you, and we'll work together." Phil had only ever worked with Barton a handful of times, but each time he'd been impressed with the agent's abilities and acute senses. He didn't doubt that they'd make a good team. "You'll most likely level up after this, you know." The corners of Phil's mouth tugged up in a weak smile. "I'm pretty sure getting shot in the gut is good grounds for a promotion, wouldn't you? And I still have to take you out to eat pizza, remember? Santarpio's. You'll love it, I promise."

Phil talked. And talked. And talked some more. His voice was hoarse and quiet by the time he heard some shuffling behind him and saw some field agents securing the building. They called out for Coulson when it was all clear, and Phil did a final check on Clint, making sure he was still stable.

The sound of the helicopter powering up was like music to his ears. Soon, they'd be back in America, and Clint would get proper medical attention. As Phil carefully let go of Clint's hand, he was renewed with a sudden burst of hope, that maybe, _just maybe_ , Clint would make it through this after all.

And just _maybe_ , Phil would become his handler.

 

**Author's Note:**

> *Clint gets shot in the stomach and is operated on by a local 'doctor' without anesthesia.


End file.
